take aim and reload
by easy love
Summary: "I heard you fucked around with girls so much they become materials for your songs." Austin&Ally. Auslly. AU.


_take aim and reload_

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**Summary: **"I heard you fucked around with girls so much they become materials for your songs." Austin&Ally. Auslly. AU.

**Prompt: **For some reason…I have a thing for couples with the girl seemingly dominant over the boy, but the boy actually being the dominant one—he just never showed it. This is…inspired by _Don't_ by Ed Sheeran – if you couldn't already tell – and _Give a Damn_ by A Rocket to the Moon.

**A/N: **Let's see how this goes.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything at all :)

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Champagne spilled over the sheets and alcohol flavored their breaths. It was one of those nights, meeting at a random club, dancing and smoking under translucent lights. Bleached blonde and a wave of curled chestnuts meshed together as they _fucked_ in his hotel room with the moans and groans a song of pleasure and frustration. Her eyes colored mocha and nicotine stained her teeth, but for some reason, she still looked beautiful bathe in her sweat.

Last night they spoke, panting and tired, but the soft smiles exchanged that glowed under dim lights and matched the red on their faces told something else. It's lust to the highest extent, the way he grabbed onto her and how their skins touched and their tongues danced, but contentment was something that lay between the lines of love and like.

"You're the best I've ever had." He breathlessly chuckles, watching her pick up her laced bra and underwear. "Never been so turned on in my entire life."

"You're okay."

She doesn't say anything else, but the slam of the bathroom door reverberates as her disinterest and rejection. He frowns, running a hand through his hair, a little annoyed at her faulty behavior. She just had _sex_—for goodness gracious!—with _rock star_ Austin Moon and she can't even spare him a glance. Moreover, hadn't she looked so _satisfied_ last night?

He picks up a lone shirt that was carelessly tossed to the floor last night, and made his way to the toilet door, feet padding softly against the fancy red carpet. He knocks on it, and then leans against the frame.

"Are you going home or do you want breakfast?"

"I don't know."

Her voice is muffled behind the closed door, and shuffling and splashes of water can be heard on the other side. He feels confused—and _slightly_ offended—by her snappy replies, but doesn't dwell on it too much. After all, the only thing he _wanted_ last night was some drinks and a good time, and he _definitely_ got it.

The door creaks open and she comes out with her hair wrapped around his towel, steam flowing behind her. She's still in her undergarments, but she strolls around the room as if he's not there and she _doesn't _care that he's a guy watching her half-naked. Sitting on the bed, she grabs the nearly empty bottle of champagne and chugs it all down. He stood on the same spot, slightly amused.

"You're famous, right?"

"I guess you could say that."

"You're Austin Moon whose face is on every poster and billboard I see around the city."

"Yep, that's me."

"I heard you fucked around with girls so much they become materials for your songs."

"Heh—you seem well informed. Although, I don't think your source is quite accurate."

She's getting dressed as they speak, and the blank look on her face makes him wonder whether it was the shots and the drinks from last night that made her so _carefree_ or if it's the morning that she hates and not necessarily _him_. But she's standing before him with her cleavage on clear view and her underwear close to falling off that—_hell_, she's hot and he's going home tomorrow – _this isn't so bad at all_.

"Today's your last day in New York?"

"Yeah. Tour finished two nights ago, I just felt like staying for a couple more days to do some signings and relax."

"I'm from Miami too."

"Really?"

"Yeah. In fact, I'm going home tonight – I was just here for some business."

"What's your name again?"

"Allyson Dawson."

Her name tasted like cherry on his tongue, and one minute she's retorting back at him with words as cold as ice, the next they're kissing like there's no tomorrow and her panties are off again. He thinks she's crazy for frowning and smiling simultaneously, but then he holds her close and their skins touch so much, he doesn't really care about girls with split personalities anymore. As long as they've still got gin and tonic, and she knows how to work him up, he's all _fine and dandy_ with whatever—_whoever_—she is.

They have sex six times that day, and they still couldn't get enough of each other. Every kiss was like a drug, aphrodisiac for the next—and the addiction is so overwhelming, he's never felt so _goddamn_ _alive_ before. She never comments on anything they do, her vision as monochrome as her personality – but there's more than one shade to both black and white and he knows she's not just nice and mean smashed together.

But he doesn't ask about her – it may be just the way she is, or it could be a sickness she can't control—either way, it's a touchy subject and he was never one to be the _sensitive kind of guy_ anyway – instead they just _fuck and fuck and fuck_ until the plane lands and he has to be back first class before anyone else sees _Austin Moon doing dirt with some commoner _on a plane ride to Miami.

They part ways; no goodbyes or numbers exchanged – just two people boarding off the plane, and coming home to their different worlds. He's greeted with paparazzi of all kinds and cameras flash with his every step, but she's in the arms of family and friends, and she dazzles him with a smile he could never forget. It's real, it's genuine and there's love in her eyes – nothing like the lust he feels and the blank smirks he sends toward the raving crowd of fans.

Standing on the same ground, and living two different dimensions – 2D with fake smiles and pretending, 3D with innocence and the reality of actually feeling something – Austin realizes that Allyson Dawson was not cold after all—just a stranger who fucked him in bed, in the airplane toilets, and forgot about the changing night and day because his world would never have satisfied her. He is not a man of love because celebrities _don't fall in love_—they act, sing like they do but the truth is, _what the fuck is love, anyway?_

So he forgets her like she forgot him two seconds after their parting. He's back to his old ways—sex, drugs and alcohol—and it feels ten times better with people who actually live in his side of the world – where girls are made of plastic and wax, and boys cry about losing girls they never cared about in the first place. And the weed feels so good and Vodka tastes so great—who needs to feel with the heart when you've got your skin and your tongue to make up for it anyway?

But, things change and this lifestyle doesn't last because he sees her again with her pretty hair and stupid beautiful eyes and they're dancing and kissing and fucking and there's blood on his sheets and her hand tangled in his hair. They're back full circle from meeting as strangers in a club to having sex in his hotel room, and saying goodbye, and fucking as strangers again.

It's a different city this time and separation made them excited, every thrust hard on her and she doesn't even care about the pain between her legs as long as for the night his tongue is hers and they're doing something they both _really_ want.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're stalking me."

"But you don't know better."

"You're right."

They stop and she leaves. _It's business_ she would say, but he knows that's not really it. She's different from before and he feels a little closer to her now but she still can't smile at him with stars in her eyes. Maybe today is the last time—he bitterly _hopes_. Because his chest hurts and he feels empty and he _always feels like this_ the moment she's out of his life, _every time_. Because he doesn't know when—_if_—she'll come back and he hates uncertainty more than he hates being in love with her.

He leaves for Paris that night, a concert looming and he's scared to perform—for the first time in forever, he thinks his mind will get so clogged up with thoughts of her that he'll forget words to his songs and mess up the dance routines. His head tells him _ridiculous, foolish boy_, but the nerves won't stop and he's throwing up his breakfast, lunch and dinner just so he can feel _slightly_ better.

Somehow, he's not surprised to see her outside his hotel door, a drink in her hand, right after the after-party. Not wasting time, their clothes are on the floor and they're on the bed doing it and they do it on the bath, they do it on the floor and they can't stop kissing and pulling each other closer and her hair is a mess and his neck is red all over but the music that plays amps their libido and they just _can't stop_.

"Why are you here?" He breathlessly moans and she smells gin with every word he speaks. "Are you really stalking me? What are you?"

"Business."

"Bullshit."

"Don't believe me, that's okay."

They're done for the night and she's wrapped in his shirt, and he stands frustrated and naked before her, eyes flaring. Because he has no idea what's going on and she can't be in Paris because she lives in Miami and what businesses schedule their trips like world tours anyway?

"I'd love you more if you were honest with me."

The comment makes her leave. Because he knows—she was only looking for another lover to burn. And then he flashes back to meeting her for the first time under blazing lights and thumping music. She slurs like a drunk but dances so steadily, he'd think differently if he didn't know any better—_which_ _he actually did_.

"Are you having a good time?"

"Yeah!"

"Do you want to go out for a bit?"

"No, I'm sorry. I'm not really looking for _another friend_—much less anything more."

"You're pretty confident that I'm asking you out."

"You aren't?"

"Haven't you heard of a _one-night-stand_?"

"Yes I have."

"Then—"

"But it never really ends with _just_ one night."

"You sure about that?"

"Yes."

"You're on."

He punches the wall and the memories fade. Throwing glasses and bottles all around him, he cries in frustration. And actual tears leak from his eyes and he can't stop them because, he has never felt so weak under someone else's touch before. He really thought, _man that girl should've been worth it_.

It took his publicist, best friend and manager to get him out of bed. And his next three tours, she doesn't show up. He's kissing girls again with dusty make-up and vixen eyes and he supposes—_this is the life, after all_. But then he thinks of her hugging a teary old man at the airport, wonders if that was her father and how he has never spoken to neither of his parents because _fame changed him _and they won't call unless he calls. He finally gets where his stubbornness comes from.

But he picks up the phone on a Monday morning, and his mom is on the other line and they talk for hours and she's crying happy tears to him, and his dad is on the background grumbling things like _he's finally learned_ and _about time_.

And he takes a break and travels all the way from Hong Kong to Miami to see the blonde haired lady and his strong and independent dad. They spent the week together, fishing with the father, baking cookies with the mother, and swimming and walking down the Miami boardwalk like a family for old time's sake. The days felt like Wonderland and he thinks _it was never right to trade Sunday talks with mom, or going to the gym with dad for the lack of privacy and red carpets looking for a way to shame you_.

He leaves and his mom cries c_ome back soon_ and though his dad is strong, watching your child fly away again to the vicious life of soul-draining fame and work with no play is never really that easy – specially if you know _soon_ might take _forever_.

He's surprised he didn't see Ally while at Miami, and he figures, _she's probably on business with someone else_. But then his next gig is a private concert at a restaurant opening and he's greeted with her welcoming face at the door. She smiles shyly at him—the most genuine one of them all, yet still not what he wanted—and tucks fallen hair strands behind her ears, it makes him want to just take her right then and there.

So when the concert finishes, he finds her in the crowd and drags her to the back of the parking lot and the ecstasy is too much they don't even make it to his car. The air is a biting chill and they're both breathless and topless and kissing and fumbling. He drives off to the nearest hotel they could find and finish what they started on the bed, tangled in sheets and with their sweaty bodies smacking and touching.

He sleeps like a baby that night, but wakes up to no one in the afternoon. Her clothes are gone, and he feels his heart rip a little in two. So he checks out in a crestfallen state but the room next to his is so loud and the moans so familiar that he couldn't help but kick the door open. He sees her in bed, his drummer on top of her, naked and red.

"Austin? Dude, what gives?"

"Sorry."

He mumbles and then runs off.

It all made sense—their synchronizing flights and her showing up just _every once in awhile_—and everything just hurt so bad. He hears her pad through the floor barefoot and catches up to him, trying to explain herself. All he hears is _sorry_ and _we fought_ and _you were there_ and _I didn't mean to_ and he couldn't take it. He leaves her on her own in the hallway, half-dressed and embarrassed, and he's packing his bags to go back to LA, heart on his throat, making it hard to breathe.

It takes a while before he's back on his feet. They don't see each other for almost a year. His drummer quit and all his songs are reduced to parties and drugs—and nothing with _love_. He hears she's started singing and writing songs – a sample was sent to his house and he takes the chance and tries it out. They meet like professionals, talk like strangers, but the electricity in their touch never really went away.

"Are you able to work with me tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Good. You can come by my house at three, and I'll have pizza and gin ready for the session."

"Of course."

She takes her leave, gathering her files and her bag, a nonchalant smile on her face. She's only getting used to fame, and _he knows_ she'll regret it. His heart still burns every time he sees her mocha eyes but, she's a small girl about to face a daring world and a part of him could not let her go through that alone. So she's readily forgiven, under the one condition that lingers through the air and is spoken by his eyes. She agrees, not one word a lie out of her mouth.

_Don't fuck with my love_.

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**A/N:** I actually don't know what I just wrote. The first like, 600 words were written nicely and then after that everything was on impulse and I completely forgot what I'm supposed to be writing about. I reckon it was Auslly sex. It's obviously not rated M though because…they were—albeit obvious—just implications. And also, the amount of times I used the f word is ridiculous. I don't even understand this story myself—that's a lie because I kinda do—but props to whoever gets this mess of a writing. I'm still upset from my D in English and I'm like…I'll write as much as I can because when school comes back I'm going to be busy with repeats and this year's work. I'm going to cry. I hate A Levels, I hate school, I hate English and I just hate that summer's over. CURSES.

**PS: **Not beta'd and wtf is with this summary?


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